The storm had passed, but the memory of it still lingered.
Outside the café, puddles mirrored the city lights like shattered glass, and the air carried that earthy scent of wet concrete and silence. Amelia Hart leaned her arms on the counter of Midnight Brew, her tired eyes watching the second hand tick around the old wall clock. Nearly midnight again. Her shift was almost over. Almost.
She loved this hour — not because of the stillness, but because of the honesty that came with it. People were different after dark. Softer. Sadder. More real. The small café, tucked between a printing shop and a failing florist, felt like the kind of place people wandered into when the world grew too heavy.
She'd just turned to stack the last few dishes when the bell over the door chimed — not hurried, not hesitant. Just… deliberate.
Her body froze, fingers curling around the edge of the counter.
He was back.
The same man from the night before.
No umbrella this time, no soaking suit. But he looked the same — too put together for a place like this, and far too tired for someone so powerful.
Amelia straightened her apron, smoothing it down even though no one cared. He walked in slowly, scanning the space as if to make sure it hadn't changed. His dark eyes caught hers, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his gaze — recognition, maybe. Or relief.
"Back for more?" she asked, her tone light but curious.
He nodded once. Still not much of a talker.
"Black coffee again?" she said.
A second nod.
She turned to the machine, pretending not to notice how his presence pulled at something inside her — like static, like gravity. She could feel him watching her. Not in a threatening way. Not even with interest, really. Just... studying. Like he couldn't decide whether she was real.
She slid the cup toward him, fingers brushing the counter. "You know, you don't have to only come when it rains."
His lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Good to know."
This time, he didn't sit at the far end. He chose the table closer to the window — the one with the crooked leg and peeling paint. He settled in, took a sip, and stared outside. But not really at the street — more like at the reflection of himself. And Amelia wondered again who he was and why he seemed to carry the weight of an entire world on his shoulders.
She told herself to mind her business.
She didn't.
After a few minutes, she walked around the counter and approached his table with a warm smile. "Mind if I join you?"
His gaze flicked up, and for a heartbeat, she thought he'd say no. Instead, he pulled the chair out with his foot in silent invitation.
She slid into the seat across from him, tucking her knees in. "So... insomnia?"
He shrugged. "Something like that."
"Work?"
A small pause. "Life."
"Ah. The heavier insomnia."
Another almost-smile. He had a nice mouth when it wasn't pressed into a grim line. Sharp jaw, neatly trimmed stubble, and tired eyes that looked like they hadn't rested in years. He looked younger than she thought — maybe mid-thirties — but there was an oldness to him that didn't match the smooth skin and expensive cologne.
"What's your name?" she asked, voice gentle.
He hesitated. Then: "Damian."
She tilted her head. "That sounds like a villain in a soap opera."
That earned a very quiet laugh — the kind people let slip when they forget to guard themselves.
"And you?" he asked.
"Amelia."
He nodded like he was filing it away.
"You don't talk much, Damian."
"Neither do you."
"I talk plenty," she said, lifting her coffee. "Just not to people who don't look me in the eye when they speak."
He met her gaze then — really met it. And she wished he hadn't, because now she couldn't look away. There was something about his eyes that made her feel like she was being seen for the first time in a long while.
Not ogled. Not appraised. Just... seen.
She cleared her throat and looked down.
"So," she tried again, "what is it that you do, really? Last night you looked like a man running from a war. Tonight you look like someone who's already lost it."
He didn't answer right away. Then: "I build things. And then I try not to watch them fall apart."
"That sounds lonely."
"It is."
A silence stretched between them, and for once, it didn't feel awkward.
Amelia leaned back in her chair. "You know, you're not the first lost soul to wander in here looking for caffeine therapy. But you are the first one who didn't try to flirt."
"Should I?"
She blinked at the sharpness of his response. Not playful. Not suggestive. Just... serious.
She stared at him for a second too long, then looked away. "No. I think I'd rather just talk."
"That's rare."
"I'm rare."
That made him smile — the real kind this time. Brief, crooked, and devastating.
"Why do you come here?" she asked softly. "Really?"
Damian exhaled slowly, resting his hands on the ceramic cup like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Because it's quiet. And because you don't ask too many questions."
"You say that after I've asked you ten in a row."
"I don't mind yours."
And there it was — that warmth again. Small, barely-there, but real.
She looked at him, and for a moment, the entire world outside the window faded — the taxis, the sirens, the city that never slept.
It was just them. A billionaire with tired eyes and a girl with more kindness than she could afford to give.
"Last question," she said.
"All right."
"Are you planning to come back again?"
Damian looked down at his coffee, then back at her.
"I haven't decided yet," he said.
But Amelia had a feeling he would.
And deep down, maybe he already had.